


Sorrow Has a Human Heart

by furorem



Series: give me things that I wanted to know [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oxenfurt Academy, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22895371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furorem/pseuds/furorem
Summary: Jaskier is intrigued by the faculty's new student, a witcher named Geralt of Rivia.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: give me things that I wanted to know [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714171
Comments: 30
Kudos: 254
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	Sorrow Has a Human Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Characterisations are book compliant with nods to the games and show.

**Sorrow Has a Human Heart**

One afternoon as he walks through the faculty’s courtyard to Professor Brandon’s office, he hears the first gossip about the Witcher.

‘Have you seen him, yet?’ a young student with fire-red hair giggles. ‘The Witcher, I mean,’ she clarifies. Her friend leans closer to her, their hair nearly mingling and mixing in a combination of blonde and red. 

‘No. Have you? Oh, you _must_ tell me!’

‘White haired and –’

Julian is, unfortunately, unable to hear the rest. On a normal day, he would probably join them, put on his most charming smile, ask them about the news and perhaps seduce one of them – or both if so inclined – with a few lines of extraordinary poesy. But even he, master seducer and lazy ass that he is, knows that being a few days away from graduating, striving for suma cum laude no less, is not to be thrown away. _Especially_ since he shudders at the thought of his father writing one of his infamous letters. Or for his cousin to show up – again – to scold him like a child and remind him of his responsibilities in the most humiliating way possible.

Knocking, he enters the professor’s office to see the old man bowed over his table, his magnifying glass in hand and squinting at something. Brandon greets him half-heartedly, motioning for him to enter and close the door. Julian does so, with raised eyebrows and a fond smile. Truth be told, the professor is – quaint, and half the student body fears him, but the old bugger has got a heart of gold and a fondness for cherry tarts that is unparalleled.

As always his office is packed with various books and manuscripts, every available surface, except his desk, occupied. The big window behind his chair does nothing to illuminate the room. As always, his office is stuffy and dark. 

Sitting down across from his mentor, Julian takes out his notebook, checks his notes, knowing that if the professor was engrossed in his work, it would take a while for him to pay any attention to his protégé. In the end, he is impressed by how quickly he is acknowledged.

Smacking his lips, the professor eventually looks up, ‘Uh greetings Julian.’ There are no hints of embarrassment in his old wrinkly face. He reaches for the carafe standing dangerously close to the edge of the desk.

As the professors pours their cups, Julian closes his book and says, ‘Greetings, Professor. Interesting?’ With a nod of his head, he indicates to the scrolls lying innocently on the desk.

Confused, as if seeing them for the first time, the professor looks at them, and then back at his student.

‘Yes, yes, indeed. I am not assured of their usefulness yet, but they do proof to be wonderful entertainment. Our recent prominent guest was so kind as to gift them to me.’

 _Interesting_ , Julian thinks with a calculating look, _I’m sure I can guess who this person is._

‘And with prominent guest you mean the Witcher?’

‘Indeed, indeed. Never thought I would see the day this academy enrols a witcher. Didn’t think they were interested in the arts,’ the old man rambles, scratching his beard, pursing his lips, ‘Medicine perhaps or the Natural Sciences, but art?’

‘I wasn’t even aware that we had a witcher among us. Seems I’m the only one. Just on my way here, I heard two beautiful maidens talking about him. He’s quite the topic of conversation. I wonder if I should feel threatened.’

The professor lets out a sound between a disapproving grumble and a laugh.

‘Don’t be silly, boy. You know how womenfolk get. He’s a mysterious stranger. A witcher nonetheless. Save danger. I suppose he is easy on the eyes but his conversation skills are seriously lacking. ’

If Julian didn’t know better he’d say the old oddball sounded indignant?

He goes on muttering under his breath, ‘Incomprehensible to me,’ and, ‘…more entertaining.’

Leaning forward to hear him, Julian asks, ‘Beg your pardon?’

But the professor shakes himself out it and focuses his gaze back on his student.

‘Nothing, nothing. Enough of the witcher. You came here to discuss the final touches of your final examination, dear boy.’

Although his curiosity is roaring, and the smile he gives is more than strained, he does open his notebook and begins talking. He can still find out more about this witcher later.

*

Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove, or Jaskier as he introduces himself, performs his graduating ballad in the great hall with Professor Brandon, the dean of the faculty and a dozen others watching, including the person who partially inspired the song, de Stael, sitting right in the middle of the room, practically poised for him to see. He doesn’t care. It gives his performance the edge it needs as he sings

_‘I must live no longer,_

_I love no one anymore -_

_Death you shall give to me,_

_For it is why I came to you._

_My darling has betrayed me,_

_Has turned away from me,_

_Has gone away from here,_

_Gone to a foreign land._

_The eyes, gentle and wild,_

_The cheeks, red and white,_

_The words, quiet and soft_

_This is my magic circle.’_

and strums his lute with vigour. If looks could kill, well – let’s say he would have died years ago. Several times.

As it is, he passes with suma cum laude. Naturally. Which is just perfect. His newly acquired degree and the fact that he is offered a teaching position, give him the levy of seeking out this witcher. It gives him a reason to forget his family’s responsibilities

and the future that awaits him. 

*

The opportunity presents itself on a late summer’s afternoon. The trees in the courtyards are slowly changing colours but it’s still warm enough for the women to walk around in wide blouses and willowy skirts and for Julian to wear light colourful jerkins with the top buttons undone.

Professor Lindenbrog merely acknowledges him with a curt nod as he enters a few minutes into the lecture, closing the door softly behind him. A swift glance around the hall is enough for him to detect the witcher – milk white hair standing out among the browns and reds and blondes. The other man is sitting in the last row, usually a favourite among those that wish to stay hidden, all by himself. Well, how very convenient.

The witcher’s eyes are trained on the professor talking about constellations and only stray the moment Julian plops down next to him and sinks down in his chair. He’s not here to hear about the conjunction and its effects on the planets. He’s here to see the witcher, to talk to him. Amber eyes swivel towards him, large pupils contracting into vertical slits, to regard the person who dares to sit next to him. _Fascinating_ , Julian thinks, unable to look anywhere else. A tiny crease appears between the witcher’s eyebrows before he turns his attention back to Lindenbrog’s babbling.

It doesn’t take long for Julian to run out of patience. 

‘Do you actually think _that’s_ interesting? How our destinies are preordained by the way the planets had aligned when we were born?’ he whispers, purposefully provoking. And it works.

‘Some of us are here to actually learn something,’ the answer promptly comes in a Riviarian accent, a voice so gritty, Julian wonders if the other man had damaged his vocal chords during a contract.

He chuckles, ‘I’m here to learn, too.’ Albeit his subject is a different one.

This time the stare he receives clearly messages him to leave the witcher alone. He doesn’t.

‘Personally, I think the trivium is way more exciting. All this talk about,’ here he impersonates old Lindenbrog, ‘’the moon influences the sea in yet unknown ways’, utter horseshit, if you ask me.’

‘Shut. Up,’ the witcher only says through clenched teeth.

It’s this moment Lindenbrog gives them both a disapproving glance. Julian all too familiar with the expression only smiles apologetically. Nothing the old coot can do to him anymore. He tries talking to the witcher all through the lecture (whenever the professor isn’t watching) but the other man sits in stoic silence, trying to ignore him.

It takes until Professor Lindenbrog ends the lecture, and the students leave the room, for Julian to get his attention. The witcher fixes him with an annoyed stare, ‘What is your dammed problem?’

It’s the first time he gets a good look at the witcher’s face. His eyes are even more remarkable with his pale complexion and that snow-white hair framing a rough face. And yet, despite the roughness, the scars, there’s a vulnerability to his question, the way he holds himself, like waiting for bad news.

Smiling reassuringly, he hopes, Julian says, ‘My – how inconsiderate of me. I didn’t even ask your name.’

The witcher relaxes.

It takes a while for him to answer.

‘Geralt of Rivia.’

Julian’s smile becomes even bigger as he makes a decision. He never liked his real name anyway.

‘Jaskier. And now that we’re acquaintances, let’s meet this evening. I shall show you around town. There’s absolutely no fun to be had in these stuffy old buildings,’ he says and because he is who he is, puts his hand on Geralt’s for emphasis, without thinking. He’s always been a tactile person. He tends to forget that others aren’t. As if burned by fire, Geralt pulls his hand away, curling it against his chest. Those amber cat eyes are comically wide and if Jaskier is seeing right, a faint blush is adorning this pale face. He tries to spare them both the awkwardness of the situation by standing, declaring at the same time, ‘Well, alright. Meet me at the fountain by the entrance shortly after dusk.’ Before Geralt can say anything else, or Gods forbid decline, Jaskier (he really likes it) leaves the hall in a rush.

*

He’s fiddling with a ring on his finger, an old family heirloom. Beautiful but hellish. It reminds him of what he can’t have, the borrowed time he lives on, the chain that tugs relentlessly. His mood lightens as out of the darkness of the corridor, into the firelight of the plaza, Geralt appears. Happy and astounded, Jaskier thinks, _he came_. 

Assessing his clothes, Jaskier has to smile. The witcher seems to have tried. He’s not wearing any armour, nor the ratty black shirt he wore during the lecture, but an actual doublet. Although the thing is out of fashion, has seen better days and does nothing to complement Geralt’s complexion as well. No matter.

Jaskier opens his arms in greeting, saying, ‘Geralt, you came! And you even made an effort. Commendable, really, but, dear, we ought to do some shopping one of these days’ and holds back to clap Geralt on the shoulder as he comes to stand next to him. Furrowing his brows, Geralt looks at himself.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ he asks, sounding genuinely confused. It’s horribly endearing.

‘Don’t get me wrong. It’s beautiful, but I’m positively certain we can find something better.’ That seems to get the message across as Geralt fixes him with a deadly stare.

‘So you think it’s ugly. Don’t use pretty words, Jaskier. I’m not an idiot,’ he grumbles and turns to walk away, even though he has no idea where to. Watching Geralt’s retreating back, Jaskier has to laugh and follows.

‘Don’t pout. I never said you were, I was just trying to be considerate. I honestly don’t know why you’re so insulted - stop, this way - isn’t your ilk supposed to be emotionless?’ he rambles, navigating the streets of Oxenfurt like the back of his hand. Geralt doesn’t say anything, his face darkening even more.

Jaskier, feeling truly embarrassed, tries to salvage this mess. He is, after all, genuinely interested in Geralt and wants the evening to be pleasant. ‘Oh, come on. I was obviously jesting. Forgive me, Geralt. I’m just trying to make conversation.’

‘You’re shit at it,’ Geralt rumbles.

‘Well, I’m not hearing you putting in any effort yourself either. Anyway, here we are,’ he says as he opens the door to his favourite tavern. It’s already filled with people; in one corner a band is ready to perform for coin the whole night; students, merchants, the regular drunk, mill around the bar. The fire in the old hearth – a big stone thing adorned with the crests of royal houses – is crackling, warming the large room hung with tapestry, deer heads, even the head of a griffin that is the namegiver of the establishment: The Griffin’s Head.

‘Find a place to sit, I’ll be back in a minute,’ Jaskier commands Geralt and disappears into the crowd. Geralt only sighs. And does as he’s told. 

The other man finds him quickly, not giving him enough time to think about their previous conversation and how we could have improved it or to wonder where he’s disappeared to, balancing two large tankards as he navigates through the people to sit across from Geralt.

‘Best ale in town,’ Jaskier smiles as he sits down. 

Geralt takes his, thanking him, his heart beating unusual fast. He can’t remember the last time someone was gracious to him just because.

‘I am the one who ought to apologise. It’s been a long time since someone tried to talk to me. My usual conversations end either with insults or with coin thrown across the table. You would think if someone hires a witcher they’d be willing to tell me what the fucking problem is, but even that is a pain in the arse most of the time.’

Frustrated he takes a large gulp. _It is_ damn good ale.

Jaskier’s face is a mixture between amusement and empathy. Taking a sip himself he looks around and true enough, even though Geralt chose one of the nooks, some people stare and whisper. Jaskier doesn’t care. Grinning, he turns back around.

‘Why’s that, you think?’ he asks. In the background, the band starts to play. They both listen for a few seconds. Jaskier’s thinking that he could do better.

‘Hmm, because over the centuries people have come up with the wildest of rumours and stupidest explanations for what they don’t know and fear. At some point, these notions become their reality. Look at what’s happening to the elves. How quickly fear can turn to violence.’

‘True, but there also those that do not fear the unknown, who even buy it an ale,’ Jaskier says and pauses, ‘I know some of these notions you’re talking about. Old wives tales: Carriers of the pest riding black stallions already dead. I try not to fall prey to them. Good thing you’re here now. Plenty of time for us to change your reputation and educate the people, you know. Only way to turn fear into acceptance.’

What began as a harmless interest in the witcher trade is quickly turning to real affection as Jaskier watches the different emotions play on that rough face, that rough face made handsome by the pleasant surprise that is mirrored on it, the little smile. An insistent buzz in his head tells him to keep asking, to get to know the witcher, to know him inside and outside, dig up all that buried hurt and turn into something that may prosper. 

‘So. Why the seven liberal arts?’

And the answer he gets –

‘Because I do not fear the unknown. Because I want to learn. _Because_ I don’t want to meet the same end as the elves.’

Their eyes meet above the grimy wooden table, their mugs half-empty between them. _Melitele, help me_ , Jaskier thinks. But he’s going to break his own heart.

*

Despite the fact that he has a full schedule, he tries to meet Geralt as often as possible. Which is not as often as he would like. Compared to many at the university the witcher does make for excellent company. Even though it always takes him a few minutes to thaw, he quickly engages in debates or tells tales of his life. These tales are what fascinate Jaskier the most, have him listening with eager ears and wondrous eyes. Whatever tale the witcher tells, they are more exciting than anything that could happen in Oxenfurt, or Kerack, for that matter. Hearing them, each time a different one, further the longing that’s already in his heart: Freedom. The freedom to travel, the freedom to travel with Geralt one day, and write poetry about it.

In lieu of going on actual adventures, he drags Geralt to all the taverns in Oxenfurt, writes about the stories he’s being told, about the man himself, starts to touch him freely. The touches – a pat to a muscled arm, grabbing a hand, hugging in greeting – aren’t confusing to the witcher anymore, are welcomed even. Jaskier begins to perform his poetry in his favourite pubs and by the time the harvest festival comes around, he’s standing on a firelit stage singing about an old astronomer that fell in love with the stars and about the white wolf. Instead of flirting with any of the beautiful, flower crown-wearing ladies and lads before him, his eyes catch the subject of the songs. Geralt, as always, stands at the edge of the audience, in his new clothes - the ones he bought for himself after getting rid of a Katakan in the local sewers - and looks back with an expression that says annoyed but amused.

Jaskier decides to finish with something halfway joyful, plays _Step it out Mary_ , makes the song his own and bows to the applauding mass of people who scream, ‘Another’. He leaves before anyone can jump on stage, pities the poor soul that has to perform after him. And maybe he’s too drunk on the applause and the cider he had beforehand but on his way off stage he can’t help himself. Jaskier sees his follow-up, Valdo Something, and pats him on the shoulder, condescendingly.

‘Good luck.’

Geralt awaits him at their agreed location with beer and baked apples, nods towards a barrel converted to a table. All around them people laugh, eat and drink, stumble into each other drunkenly, happy. The air smells of food, of the last days of autumn.

‘Congratulations, Jaskier, that was - incredible. People loved it,’ Geralt toasts, has Jaskier smiling at the praise.

They fall into conversation easily, as it has become a habit for them. Talking about anything that comes to mind, about university, Geralt’s paper. The witcher is in the middle of explaining his argumentation when he stops abruptly, tries to warn Jaskier but is too late. Out of the people around them, an angry man pushes his way through, then pushes his companion. Jaskier stumbles, but doesn’t fall. The people behind him cuss at him to watch out.

‘What-?’ he chokes out and sees his assailant, Valdo Something, his usually brown curls in disarray and wild green eyes.

Geralt, bless him, is between the two them in a heartbeat, holding the assailant back with a hand pushing against his chest, ‘Hey, calm down!’

‘You! Sss your fault,’ the man slurs, clearly dead drunk and angry, ‘punch sssome ma-ma-manners into you.’ Ignoring the witcher altogether he lunges at Jaskier again, with all the drunken grace he can muster. Which is none.

Apologising, Jaskier steps back, ‘So sorry for whatever misfortune befell you, my friend. I’m sure we can sort this out like – argh, Geralt!’ Valdo’s face is contorting into pure rage, rage that must transfer into his uncoordinated limbs for he pushes past the witcher and throws himself at Jaskier, who dodges and has Valdo charging into a laughing couple.

Jaskier runs. Geralt, stunned at the drunken man’s strength watches as Jaskier disappears into the throng of people, and follows. Behind him, the drunken man swears loudly, stumbling after them. 

Rushing through shocked and screaming people, Geralt catches up with his friend, grabs him by the arm and drags him into a small alley where a harlot is currently on her knees pleasuring her client. As they pass them, Jaskier yells, ‘So sorry, love’ and starts laughing at the stern look Geralt gives him while dragging him through the streets.

After a while, totally out of breath, Jaskier frees his arms and doubles over, begging the witcher to stop and sees that they’re near the university again. Jaskier desperately catches his breath, sucking in precious air while Geralt hasn’t even broken a sweat. Out of nowhere, he starts laughing, clutching his side in pain.

‘What are you laughing about, hmm? What mess have you gotten yourself into now? Slept with his girl, have you, you whoremonger.’

Taking a last deep breath, Jaskier starts walking again, still clutching his side.

‘No. NO, I swear it. I merely wished him good luck when I saw that he had to perform after me.’

Geralt groans yet steadies the stumbling, giggling idiot, holding him upright. The unbridled joy he sees on his youthful face as the fire flickers over it, illuminating him, turning him into something enchanting, steals Geralt’s breath away. It’s the second time this evening the poet has secretly done so. And leaves Geralt disoriented with the feeling. 

*

Normally, Jaskier hates his office. Every opportunity to be away from the accursed room, he’ll take. It is by chance that he’s in it and by chance that Geralt finds him there. There’s a gentle knock on his door, which opens a second after he invites the stranger in. He expects a student. Someone asking after his friendship with the witcher, someone needing help with their poetics. It could be anyone. The last person he expects is Geralt entering on soft feet. The witcher closes the door behind him, looks around. For a moment Jaskier is too stunned to say anything, do anything, all he can do is stare at Geralt taking stock of his shelves, his desk, his degree on the wall, his lute, until his amber eyes land on Jaskier himself.

‘Didn’t know you’re a professor – Julian de Lettenhove?’ he mumbles, sounding so unsure, intimidated even. The sound of Jaskier’s real name foreign on his tongue. 

Jaskier can relate. It has been a miracle that he was able to keep this secret until now, unwilling to expose this part of himself. He fears something might change.

‘Never asked, and please don’t call me that,’ he says, trying to be funny, standing up and rounding the table to lean against it.

‘Never told. High Honours nonetheless.’

Jaskier looks at the certificate.

‘I _am_ brilliant, my dear. I hope you picked up on that by now.’

Geralt nods and huffs out a small laugh, walks over to the table, too, leaning against it next to Jaskier. In his hands is a scroll.

‘You uh offered to help with my argumentation. I know astronomy isn’t exactly your favourite subject, but since you so kindly offered I’d thought I’d take it. You are brilliant after all.’ There’s a small smile playing around his mouth.

Jaskier has to smile himself.

‘Hand it over then. Let’s see,’ he says and holds his hand open, receiving the scroll, their fingers brushing.

As he starts reading, Geralt takes the opportunity to watch him – the way his brows furrow in concentration, his lips moving in silent reading. He listens to his heartbeat, not accelerated because he’s afraid but because he’s nervous. The poet, professor, _his friend_ , is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Geralt hears himself say, ‘Do not worry, _Jaskier_. This doesn’t change anything.’

Jaskier looks up at the reassurance for a second and the agitated lines on his face turn smooth. A bump against Geralt’s shoulder, not unexpected, not anymore, and Jaskier settles against the desk again, closer this time. This is also not unexpected. And just like that the tension is broken. He finishes reading and looks at Geralt with a glint in his eyes.

‘This is good, very good. But you knew that already. What did Lindenbrog say?’

‘That I showed an astute understanding of the subject matter and ought to be proud of my achievement.’

‘Sounds like him. Head in the clouds, but heart at the right place. He, like many others at the academy, want you to succeed,’ Jaskier says fondly, holding Geralt’s eyes.

‘He also asked me if I had help from my close friend Professor de Lettenhove. Saw the confusion on my face and was confused himself. Started describing you, that’s when I realised. I haven’t felt so – young and embarrassed in a long time.’ 

The scroll is put down at his desk.

‘Why did you come _here_? To see if it was true? Well yes, it is. And what did you expect to happen then? That I would tell you off? That I would flaunt it in your face? That I would laugh at your gullibility? As you saw, I did none of these things. And as we established, this revelation changes nothing. I apologise for not telling you, Geralt. I’m not afraid to say that it was me who feared judgement.’

Geralt stays silent, overwhelmed by Jaskier’s uncanny ability to magically read his thoughts despite not having the skill to do so, and dispelling his worries with a few pointed words. 

‘So, what do you really want?’

The sunlight is streaming through the two small windows, warming their backs, basking the room in soft light and softer shadows. Two cornflower blue eyes look at him expectantly.

_I want to kiss you. I want to know what your lips taste like. I want to bend you over that desk. I want to know what you sound like with my mouth on every part of you. I want you to know how much you mean to me._

‘Geralt?’ Jaskier whispers, suddenly unsure. Geralt doesn’t know how to answer, is too terrified to answer. Instead, he’s staring. At Jaskier’s lashes, his bright blue eyes, his mouth.

His pupils, without his conscious consent, must be huge and round. As in so many situations, Jaskier is braver than he is. His hands find Geralt’s face, calloused thumbs stroking over pale cheekbones. The witcher is leaning into the touch, eyes closing, head falling forward until his forehead touches Jaskier’s, overpowered by the kind touch. 

Without realising, his arms sneak around the lithe waist in front of him. If he weren’t so relaxed, so wound up by the tender touch, he would grind his teeth in frustration, to have lost control of his senses. It’s just –

‘It’s alright, Geralt. You can tell me. Don’t be afraid. What do you want, my dear?’

That voice, that honeyed voice, right next to his ear, like a siren calling him out to sea.

Burying his nose against a temple, the scent of soap and Jaskier wrapping around him, he admits, quietly, ‘- You.’

Geralt’s head is moved to face those blue benevolent eyes.

‘I’m here, so kiss me, will you?’

And then nothing else must be said.

The way their lips touch softly, how Jaskier’s hands bury themselves in white hair, unravelling it from its hairdo, how Geralt holds on tight with shaking hands. Like dancers they move so that Jaskier might sit on the table, never stopping the way lips move against lips, getting bolder, more sure. Geralt wants to taste – and Jaskier permits it, opens his mouth to let him in with hitching breath. Geralt’s hands begin to wander. And that’s where Jaskier thinks they need to move this and Geralt thinks that he overstepped a boundary.

Maybe kissing a mutant was fine, but anything else –

Sensing the doubt in Geralt, the poet takes good hold of his face and says, ‘Stop that. You tend to come to the wrong conclusion when stuck in your own head. I merely want to move this to a place where there’s a bed and some peace. Sounds nice?’

‘Yes. Very.’

Jaskier jumps from the table, takes Geralt’s hand and leads him to his room. Or rather drags him. He hurries through the corridors, ignoring any and all curious eyes. At some point Geralt squeezes his hand, not enough to hurt, _he’d never_ , says, ‘easy’ in that low voice of his. But Jaskier is not some spooked horse, he’s a man on a mission. And so he drags the witcher through the corridors, past any and all curious eyes, throws open the door and slams it shut.

For all the urgency he showed just a moment before, it’s all but gone now that he’s got Geralt in his room, looking at him in wonder, framed by the slowly setting sun whose colour fits the otherworldliness of his eyes. He approaches slowly as if caught in a spell, unable to believe that he’s allowed to be this close, to kiss and take if he so wishes.

Geralt recognises the hesitancy in his movements and does everything to chase it away – opens his arms invitingly, smiling, controlling his usually slow beating heart trying to jump out of his ribcage. It must work, the way Jaskier falls against him, body pliant like a puppet’s with strings cut. Mirroring the man in his arms, he winds his own around him, holding him tight, enjoying the warmth, the touch of someone who isn’t repelled by it.

Feeling encouraged by Jaskier nuzzling against Geralt’s neck and kissing every available patch of skin he can reach, Geralt does the same. He buries his nose in the hair smelling of rosemary and thyme and Jaskier, drops a kiss on his temple, the tip of his ear, smears one across his cheekbone.

An exhale against his collarbone, a rapid heartbeat. It’s grounding. Maddening. Geralt’s skin is tingling in a way it never has before, warmth bursting through him pleasantly. Jaskier feels his involuntary shivering, smiles against his vulnerable neck, drops a barely existing kiss on it, lets his lips move ghostlike to Geralt’s mouth.

Tasting loneliness and longing, he croons, ‘Oh Melitele, has anyone ever touched you like this? You’re shaking like a leaf, dear.’ And Geralt tries to tell him _no never_ , and _no one ever_ _wanted_ and _i don’t know how_ but the words just won’t come, all that he manages is a feeble whispered, ‘ _Jaskier_ ’. But it’s enough.

The poet gently pushes him towards the bed, undressing Geralt with steadfast fingers, a litany of comforting words falling from his lips,

‘It’s alright, Geralt. It’s _alright_ , don’t worry. Get me out of those, _yes_ , I’ll take good care of you. You can trust me. You won’t hurt me, I know you. Stop overthinking. _Gods_ , look at you, shame on them, shame on them’

until finally Geralt’s on the bed, scarred nakedness on display, hair catching fire on the last rays of sunshine. Jaskier drinks him in, wraps careful hands around bent thighs, feels the difference between skin and scar tissue. All that savage glory his to worship.

His hands begin to wander while he reigns in the desperate desire burning in his blood and pooling in his gut. Geralt deserves nothing but slow and gentle, someone touching him with care instead of ill intention or contempt. So he lets his hands wander slowly and gently, followed by his mouth, leaving a hot trail of open mouthed kisses on skin and scar tissue – the soft inside of a thigh, a hipbone, a knobbly scar on abdominal muscles, the place above Geralt’s oh so human heart, white hair tickling his lips, shudders wrecking the body beneath.

Leaning back, just to have a look, to paint a picture for his mind to keep forever, no matter what would happen after this, has Geralt’s hand, immobile until now, searching for him, his eyes half-lidded, mouth blood-red from gnawing at his lips. Jaskier catches those searching hands between his, interlacing their fingers, humming softly to reassure the other man.

‘You have to let me go. Just for a second, no longer, I promise. Can touch me all you want after.’ 

Geralt waits, patiently, stretches like a cat in the sun and greets Jaskier with wet kisses and tender hands. Hands that brush over smooth unscarred skin, revelling in it, in touching, in being touched; the sound of their heartbeats, their quickened breaths; the sweet scent of sweat and sex; an eager tongue licking into his mouth before it’s gone and there again, licking the evidence of his arousal.

Something between a laugh and a cry leaves Geralt’s lips. His finger grasp the sheets as every nerve in his body burns with pleasure. 

Then –

‘Do you trust me?’ Jaskier asks, searching for any hint of doubt. But all he receives is a nod and a husky, ‘Of course. You must be mad to think otherwise.’

It coaxes the most delightful of laughs out of him as the aroma of flowery oil fills the air between them. Geralt’s inexperienced, not ignorant. He bends his legs, opens them wide and welcomes Jaskier in, the smiling mouth kissing away any discomfort, the clever fingers playing him like one of the bard’s instruments. The noises Geralt creates (grunts, moans, _Jaskiers_ ) are nothing like it, but sound _oh so_ better, more rewarding. Especially when he eventually, carefully, reverently, lovingly, connects their bodies and hears Geralt’s choked howling; and looks into amber eyes drowning in black, full of adoration; and feels strong arms lightly tucking him down to kiss some more.

He moves, caged in a circle of arms that keep him close, and wonders, again, how anyone could be so foolish to deny this, counts himself lucky that he’s been given the opportunity - to see Geralt of Rivia totally and completely loose himself to bliss, to feel the ripples of pleasure running over his body; see him throw his head back, exposing his delicate neck to Jaskier’s sloppy kisses as he comes undone.

*

The fire in the hearth is slowly eating the logs to fuel itself, giving light and warmth to the room and its inhabitants. Jaskier is probed against the wall, watching the flames in thought, while one of his hands lazily strokes over Geralt’s exposed back. The other man is currently draped over him, dozing. In a fit of inspiration, he leans over to get his notebook and pencil (quite new and unbelievable tidy compared to a quill and ink) and begins writing.

At some point Geralt is woken by the small movements, the scratching of pencil on paper. Not moving his body, merely opening his eyes, he rasps, hot breath against naked flesh, ‘What’re doing?’ 

‘Writing,’ Jaskier mumbles, unwilling to disturb the comfortable atmosphere.

‘Share?’ he asks hesitantly.

Jaskier hums, clears his throat and recites,

_‘Now black and deep the night begins to fall,_

_A shade immense! Sunk in the quenching gloom,_

_Magnificent and vast, are heaven and earth._

_Order confounded lies, all beauty void,_

_Distinction lost, and gay variety_

_One universal blot-such the fair power_

_Of light, to kindle and create the whole._

_Drear is the state of the benighted wretch_

_Who then bewildered wanders through the dark_

_Full of pale fancies and chimeras huge;_

_Nor visited by one directive ray_

_From cottage streaming or from airy hall._

_Perhaps, impatient as he stumbles on,_

_Struck from the root of slimy rushes, blue_

_The wild-fire scatters round, or, gathered, trails_

_A length of flame deceitful o’er the moss;_

_Whither decoyed by the fantastic blaze,_

_Now lost and now renewed, he sinks absorbed,_

_Rider and horse, amid the miry gulf —._ ’

The witcher is silent, and so is the poet. The fire’s spitting in the background, consuming another log.

After the moment’s silence, Geralt says, ‘That’s very different from what you usually write. From anything I’ve ever heard. Just hope this one isn’t about me.’

Jaskier chuckles and kisses the crown of white hair lying on his chest. ‘They’re all about you, my dear, but don’t you worry, it’s not finished yet. And I doubt I will ever perform it.’

‘And why’s that? Surely not because it’s not in line with current tastes? Or because your old mentors would disapprove?’

‘Yes. And no,’ Jaskier says and feels his heart beginning to pound uncomfortably. Before Geralt can comment on it, he decides to show honesty, ‘Truth be told – I’m destined to return to Kerack where my father shall force me to marry someone advantageable and train me in our family’s duty. Sooner or later he’ll come. And I’m afraid rather sooner than later. ---- All very dreary, don’t you think? So why not,’ and Jaskier puts away his notes to turn around and snuggle against his lover, his friend, ‘use the time I have left and make it count? Kiss me, Geralt. Kiss me. Again and again.’

Geralt does, pouring all his gratitude, his lust, the love he feels, into it.

‘Like that,’ Jaskier whispers against his lips syrupy-sweet with eyes closed, growing hard.

Encouraged by their previous coupling, by Jaskier’s words, Geralt dares to ask, quietly, a bit boldly, ‘May I stay the night?’

Strong fingers run over Geralt’s chest, a thumb brushing his nipple, blunt fingernails scratching over a nasty scar.

‘Of course. You must be mad to think otherwise.’

*

Geralt’s like a stray cat when it comes to affection; he seeks it while shying away from it at the same time. And yet he finds himself in Jaskier’s presence or bed more often than not, growing bolder with each passing day. Perhaps it is the knowledge that their time is limited that has him desperately occupying the space Jaskier has made for him, has Jaskier not even making passes at anyone else, enjoying each other’s company. It also has the nice side effect of Geralt being amicable towards others. He glares less and actively engages in conversation with strangers that come up to him in the tavern without insulting them. People get to know him and some even say, embarrassed but honest, ‘Had you picked for the wrong sort, witcher.’

And then there’s the gambling crowd.

‘Promised me a rematch, White Wolf,’ Herbert demands as he slams his tankard between Geralt and Jaskier, beer sloshing onto the table. Jaskier rolls his eyes. Geralt tries not to groan or threaten Herbert, who smells as bad as always.

Instead, patiently, Geralt says, ‘Not today.’ But Herbert is not to be swayed. He keeps nagging until Geralt hisses, ‘Fine.’

Giving up his seat opposite from Geralt with a groan, Jaskier settles in next to him, sitting as close as possible, nearly on his lap, really.

Herbert, smiling victoriously, takes the seat and produces his set of Gwent cards from his pocket. While shuffling his cards, he addresses Jaskier with lecherous grin, ‘You can groan later, Master Jaskier, when you suck your witcher’s cock.’

If he weren’t so used to the old drunkard’s jests he would’ve wished for the ground to open and swallow him (never mind that the fool’s got it the wrong way around). As it is, though, he knows him too well. His face showing disgust, his voice streaked with annoyance, Jaskier retorts, ‘Herbert, I swear, one more word out of that ruin you call your mouth and I will personally -’

Geralt clapping a hand over his own stops him.

‘Shut up, before you get us both into trouble,’ he whispers to Jaskier before he turns to his opponent, ‘What’re you betting, Herbert? Can’t imagine you have much left after you lost most of your fortune to me,’ Geralt smiles hideously.

‘But I’m the one who’s getting us into trouble?’ the witcher hears the poet mumble under his breath.

Herbert ignores them and declares, ‘50 Orens.’ But he’s not done, ‘If I win I shall get the pot, _plus_ all previous bets.’

For a second, Geralt hesitates. Herbert is a scumbag but he’s on his way to literally lose all his money. Normally Geralt’s morals would forbid him from participating, to try and talk the man out of it. But. Herbert _is_ a scumbag and Geralt’s fed up with his unruly behaviour.

‘Fine. 50 Orens. And if I win, you will also apologise to Jaskier by singing.’

A hush falls over the tavern. It is now that Jaskier realises that they’ve attracted a crowd around their table and that those pretending to not be interested, listen nonetheless. Geralt seems to realise, too. His cat eyes turn to slits.

‘And no more stupid jests about what happens in the privacy of our bedroom. I will not be held responsible for my companion’s actions otherwise.’

Herbert narrows his eyes. Nods. Aware that everyone is watching them, unwilling to make an even bigger fool out of himself. ‘Deal.’

 _He must be very sure of his victory_ , Geralt thinks.

Somewhere in the crowd people start to bet on who’s going to win, coin exchanging hands. In the epicentre of the commotion itself, both men shuffle their opponent’s cards, Jaskier asks, ‘Head or Tails?’ and tosses a coin.

And watches with a self-satisfied grin how Geralt wins. 

The spectators holler and buy drink after drink after drink for the two of them.

A few days later as they’re walking across the market, buying fresh fruit and other necessities, they’re forging a plan to spend some of their break between semesters in Novigrad. Even though Geralt isn’t fond of the city, Jaskier is excited to see it, picturing all the things to see and do with dramatic hand gestures, nearly losing the apple he’s holding. His excitement is contagious and not long into their conversation, Geralt is excited as well. If only to see the wonder and disgust on the poet’s face at the sight of Novigrad.

It never comes to pass.

Geralt doesn’t know how the fight starts or who starts it. One moment they’re talking, the next they’re trading blows that are meant to hurt. He thinks it started with him saying that he’d leave for a few days to take care of a spectre in one of the surrounding villages. Something about his words set Jaskier off, had him lashing out.

‘If you don’t want me to leave, just say so, you selfish ass. _Do not_ treat me as a monster for doing what I was created to do. Not _you_ , damn it!’ Geralt growls angrily, heart racing. If this is what it feels like to have it broken, he’d never love again.

It’s these words, the hurt on Geralt’s face, that stop Jaskier from truly wounding the witcher. All the anger he felt because of his family a second ago, that had him lashing out at Geralt, vanishes. Without it, he visibly deflates. He tries to tell Geralt the truth but he only manages to stammer. The great Jaskier, lost for words. Instead, he retrieves his father’s letter and hands it, wordlessly, to Geralt. Reading it, his face morphs into an ugly grimace. Jaskier can’t bear to look at Geralt, while the letter’s words flash in his mind. _The rumours of that non-human and you_ – _We await your return after the semester is over and the yule festivities will have ended_. _It is time for you to_ – .

The crumbling of paper disturbs his thoughts. The witcher clutches the letter in a white knuckled fist.

In two, three, long steps, he’s in front of Jaskier, kneeling between his legs. He feels the cold of the stone floor seeping into his bones. His hands settle on his companion’s knees.

‘Refuse him.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Yes, you can. Come to Kaer Morhen with me. The Blue Mountains are beautiful this time of the year.’

Geralt sounds frantic, offering a choice. A choice that is not real. 

And the thing is, the problem is – _it is_ what Jaskier wishes, wants, desires. He would follow Geralt to the edge of the world if he could. It fuels the hatred in his heart. These two pale hands, hands that he has come to cherish, remind him of what he can’t have. Not anymore. Standing, he shakes Geralt off.

‘You think I haven’t tried? What will you have me do, Geralt? Rebel? Curse them? Run away? I tried! And then I tried again! I tried everything I could. And every time in ended in punishment. This – this is the most of freedom I was allowed to taste and only because it was necessary.’

The witcher doesn’t say anything.

‘What? Tis the truth, Geralt. I told you. I told you from the very beginning how this would end. You knew what you were getting yourself into.’

Back turned to Geralt, he’s standing at the door now, hatch between shaking fingers, angry and desperate. For once, he wishes that all the tales were true – that witchers were heartless monsters that came during the night to whisk your children away.

‘Do you hate me now?’ he asks, genuinely afraid at the prospect.

‘No.’

A pause.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I need to give a lecture.’

The air is stifling.

Turning around at last, Jaskier says, ‘I heard that this brightly glowing comet everyone at the Imperial Academy is talking about might travel in our direction soon. Would you like to see it? A worthy herald to our misfortune, don’t you think, dear?’

‘Yes, sure,’ Geralt answers wooden, his gaze jumping from the mirror on the dresser, repulsed by his own visage, to the window, anywhere but the other man.

Biting his lip, Jaskier nods and leaves the room. Woe to the first poor student that is going to inquire after the witcher today. 

*

They decided to take two horses and ride out after the last lectures of the day, yet early enough to profit on the last light. Since Geralt was the one that actually knew the terrain, the land of the Northern Realms, like the inside of his pockets, he was taking the lead for a change. Not far from the city, beyond a stretch of forest, a small mountain range stretches deeper into the country. It is there that Jaskier’s being led, riding behind a stoic witcher. Trying to fill the silence, he talks to his horse now and then, praising her for carrying him through the wilderness.

After a while, Geralt stops atop a small hill, the mountains still far away, Jaskier notes mournfully. The view is, nevertheless, spectacular. Behind them, the hills seem to unfold in an eternity of green and brown, rising higher and higher, while the way they came from reveals the splendour of the woods, framed by the city with its inland harbour. Chilly wind rustles the grass and his hair, pulling at his clothes.

‘It’s wonderful,’ Jaskier says dreamily, unable to pull his eyes away from the panorama beneath him. Up here, his worries seem non-existent.

‘Help me set up our camp for the night. I’ll make a fire,’ Geralt interrupts him, moving. Ever since their fight, he’s been distant. Jaskier cannot begrudge his behaviour.

They work mostly in silence – Geralt searching for enough sticks to last the night and kindling them eventually, Jaskier setting out linen blankets and furs, arranging their saddles to be used as backrests, next to each other of course, leaning his lute against his own one.

Slowly but surely daylight fades, leaving the only source of light the crackling fire. As night falls the noises of animals and nature surrounding them change. Jaskier, leaning against his saddle comfortably, tries to remember the last time he experienced the countryside like this and realises he hasn’t. All he remembers are the sounds and smells of cities; the confinement of sharing your space with so many others. There’s enjoyment in it, immensely so. But he can’t deny that there is something humbling about feeling so lonesome and – small, surrounded by the sky and the earth.

A sudden epiphany strikes him – that this is Geralt’s world. That this is Geralt’s reality. That Geralt has strayed into his in search of acceptance and insight.

Jaskier only becomes aware of the fact that he’s been staring at the witcher instead of the sky, the purpose for coming out here, as the man in question turns to him.

Bashfully he asks, ‘Will you sing for me?’

How could Jaskier deny him with that soft pleading look in his beautiful amber eyes, reflecting the light of the fire like two beacons?

Experimentally he strums his lute, satisfied with the sound.

_‘I wish I was on yonder hill  
'tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,  
And every tear would turn a mill,_

_And may you go, my darling, safely  
Walk, walk, walk on, oh love  
Walk steadily and walk softly  
And may you go, my darling, safely_

_I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,  
I'll sell my only spinning wheel,  
To buy my love a sword of steel_

_And may you go, my darling, safely  
Walk, walk, walk on, oh love  
Walk steadily and walk softly  
And may you go, my darling, safely_

_I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red,_  
 _And 'round the world I'll beg my bread,_  
 _Until my parents shall wish me dead_ ’

Something strange happens. Notes escape crooked and warped, unusual for the poet. Jaskier stops singing before he can start weeping.

Swallowing his tears, he says, ‘Oh bloody hell. Geralt, make love to me. Or better yet, let me make love to you. Give me something to remember you by. Let’s consume each other until morn, until the first rays of dawn bring forth the next day. Make me wish that this night shall never end.’

Geralt obliges. How could he deny him, when his own heart wishes nothing else? 

‘No need for pretty words, Jaskier.’

Feverishly they get undressed, hiding beneath the furs, rubbing against each other to get warm, to feel the heat of arousal.

Out here, Geralt is in his element, unrestricted by etiquette, unashamed by not being overheard; not being seen and judged. His howl is loud, a white wolf indeed. His fingers search purchase on Jaskier’s chest as pleasure overcomes his body (his body that takes whatever Jaskier offers so wantonly). A man more noble and human than any of those that call him monster and mutant.

It’s slow, the way he rises and rolls his hips over and over again. Jaskier is not the only one memorising the feel of a beloved person. He doubts though that Geralt is granted the same sight that he is, because it is truly one to behold: Geralt’s pale face in contrast to the black-blue of night, his hair glowing as brightly as the passing comet above.

How he is to nurse his wounded heart when, in the future, all he will see and hear and taste and smell, looking at the night sky, is Geralt?

Geralt, amidst the stars, forever.

And if the poet weren’t so occupied with his own breaking heart, he would see how the witcher’s unnatural cat eyes drink in the image below him like a man unable to quench his thirst or sate his hunger.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that long fingers entangle themselves in starlit hair, bringing their lips together, chasing that fire in their bellies until Jaskier buries the proof of his love in Geralt’s shuddering body, feels the other man’s on his heaving stomach. Their foreheads touch, sharing each inhale and exhale until they rearrange their limbs, calm themselves with deep breaths, end up cuddled closer than possible.

‘Come to Kaer Morhen with me,’ Geralt begs again, gazing at the stars, holding Jaskier tight underneath the furs, unable to look at him should he deny his offer once more. It will be the last time he tries. He has no more courage to ask a third time. After all, he is only a lowly witcher with nothing to offer.

A cold breeze rustles the grass around them, tries to seep into the cocoon of heat. Still no answer from Jaskier. _He’s trying to spare me_ , Geralt laments, sinking into the morass, thoughts spiralling.

Then, with a curse, Jaskier pulls him out of it, as always, ‘Pox on it. Yes. Damn it all. _Yes._ I shall write him and tell him that I refuse to come home. And if he sends my dear cousin, well, he can acquaintance himself with your steel sword.’

Geralt is lost for words, has to kiss every available part of Jaskier he can reach.

‘You truly are a bad influence on me,’ the poet sighs, smiling. 

The cold doesn’t bother them, flushed with happiness as they are.

They make love until morn, until the first rays of dawn bring forth a new day.

*

_Dear father,_

_On the matter of your summoning, I am afraid I must refuse. I shall not return to Kerack._

_..._

*

With batted breath Jaskier waits for the inevitable. The letter he’s sent will prompt his father to send his cousin in return. Of that he is sure. Just as it is in Jaskier’s nature to run away from his reponsibilities, it is in his cousin’s to fulfil them. No matter how close the two of them once were.

What he doesn’t expect is the swiftness with which Ferrant arrives. He thought they would have more time to wrap things up at the academy, leave before the annual yule ball. Wheras he cares not for his familial responsibilities, he does so concerning academy matters. His students and colleagues deserve him carrying out his duties until there is nothing left undiscussed and unmanaged. The same goes for Geralt since he is such a student.

Still, he nursed the small hope that they could manage to be gone before the whole situation escalated. But he has no such luck. Ferrant arrives together with the first fresh snow of the year.

Geralt and Jaskier enter the Griffin’s Head, shaking snow from their coats and hair, ready to celebrate the end of semester. The inside is pleasantly warm, noisy with people and music. Their usual seat is occupied so they shoulder their way to the bar first. It is there, while ordering, that someone taps Jaskier’s arm to get his attention. With the reputation he’s garnered by now, whether through his singing, his companion or former sexual liaisons, he’s used to it.

Turning around, his heart stops, all noise begins to fade as if someone has put his head underwater. Standing behind him with arms crossed and a blank face is his cousin. Geralt must sense his unease. He slips out of his conversation with the barmaid Sylvia with a worried, ‘Jaskier?’

Ferrant rises an eyebrow.

‘So it is true,’ he drawls, mustering the witcher with disgust. ‘My dear cousin frolicking around with a freak.’ People around them stop talking. ‘What damned spell have you put on him, eh?’ he addresses Geralt now.

Geralt, used to verbal abuse and accusations stays calm. Replies, ‘None. He’s frolicking around with a freak because he wants to.’

A muscle beneath Ferrant’s eye ticks. Slowly his arms loosen, his hand wandering to the hilt of his dagger at his hip.

‘You’re trying to be funny, mutant? I know your kind and – ’

‘And enough,’ Jaskier interrupts, standing between them to shield Geralt from his cousin’s words, ‘He’s done nothing to me I didn’t want. He neither bewitched me nor hurt me. Something, which you cannot claim. I won’t have you insulting my friend on the basis of backcountry prejudices and stupid rumours.’

His chest is heaving with anger and adrenaline. He didn’t expect to meet Ferrant so soon and under these circumstances. Carefully, Geralt places a hand on his shoulder in a show of support. Ferrant’s eyes zero in on the gesture, riled up by the tension, his grip on the dagger tightens.

Through spared teeth, he commands the witcher to move away.

Slyvia’s voice bursts the bubble of aggression, ‘Stop it! All of you, bloody hell. I don’t know you, good man, and I’ve heard plenty. You better leave. Right now. Before we haul your ass out of here and make you regret ever setting foot in Oxenfurt.’

For a second Ferrant stares at the women, clearly thinking of words to reply before he deems it better to shut up, seeing the angry calculating faces of the crowd around them.

‘Very well,’ he says and relaxes his posture. ‘But this isn’t over, Julian.’

Head held high, he strides out the door.

Jaskier watches him leave warily, knowing that he must talk to his cousin come morning. For tonight, he’ll enjoy drink and good company.

They sleep until noon. Or rather Jaskier does. Geralt is still asleep when he leaves the warm safety of their bed, kissing an exposed shoulder as the sheets slide from his even so naked frame. It earns him a sleepy mumble.

He finds Ferrant at the same inn he stayed the last few times he’d visited. The walk through the city leaves him cold and wet, snow falling, turning the streets soggy and muddy. It is not cold enough yet for it to stay on the ground. He’s shivering from head to toe as he arrives at the inn where he suspects his cousin to be. His boots and his coat are soppy. The innkeeper, serving a few guests, greets him and tells him that he’ll be with him soon. Jaskier, shaking from the cold and nerves, would rather turn around and tell him not to bother. But if there’s a chance to make his cousin understand he must take it or else face his family’s wrath forever, looking over his shoulder constantly lest they hire a mercenary to kill him.

Describing Ferrant to the innkeeper yields the result he’s hoped for. _I knew it_ , he thinks smugly. His cousin, ever the man of habits.

With heavy steps, he ascends the creaky wooden stairs and knocks on the door.

Ferrant opens it, takes his drenched appearance in.

‘Julian, I’ve hoped you would come on your own,’ he says and gestures for Julian to enter.

The conversation ends in a shouting match – truly a shame. Julian never hated his cousin, saw an ally in him even. But his insistence to bring back Julian, forcefully if necessary, without listening to the reasons why he refuses to return, makes his blood boil. Julian is at the end of his tether when his cousin dares to issue an ultimatum.

‘You have until afternoon. Say goodbye to that witcher and meet me back here. If you don’t, I will come for you with the guards. I won’t hesitate to bring you back unconscious and gagged. ‘

Julian’s trembling with rage. The following words coming out of his mouth are as icy as the weather outside, ‘I wish for you, dear cousin, that you will someday find what makes you truly happy. Whether it be a person or a desire. And when you feel at your happiest, I wish for destiny to take it from you in the cruellest possible way. Remember my words then, Ferrant. The death of your body is kinder than the death of your soul. May it wither and poison you from the inside.’

His cousin looks as if struck by lightning.

The innkeeper yells after him to behave as he leaves, slamming the doors.

Geralt is awake by the time he comes back, and still furious he tells the witcher to pack his bags. They do, Jaskier retelling the conversation while Geralt tries to calm him down. He doesn’t have the intention of waiting for his cousin.

It is not yet afternoon, not even a few hours later, when Ferrant finds them, knocking on the door asking for Julian to come out and talk. He doesn’t leave his room but rather lets his cousin in, just in case a murder is about to happen. Ferrant looks around the tidied up room, at the two bags, the witcher guarding them with crossed arms.

Then his cousin looks at him, disapproving, pitying, sorrowful.

‘Go,’ he commands. ‘Don’t return to Kerack, or Verden, for a while. I’ll put your parents at ease.’ 

Julian’s eyes widen in shock. ‘What?’

‘I said,’ he repeats, ‘go. Don’t make me repeat myself or I’ll change my mind.’

Ferrant motions with his hands for the pair to leave. ‘You best hurry.’

They both needn’t be told a third time. Whatever it was that changed his cousin’s mind, he’s not going to stay and ask. Swift as the wind, bags, swords and lute are carefully thrown over shoulders. On the way out, when Geralt has already left towards the stables, Julian turns to his cousin, who is picking dirt from under his nails with feigned disinterest, and hugs him tightly.

‘I owe you, Cousin. I owe you my life,’ he whispers hoarsely.

Strong hands squeeze him before he’s being released. Two blue eyes, so familiar to his own, bore into him.

‘You owe me absolutely nothing. Now go. Don’t keep that witcher of yours waiting.’

Julian leaves without looking back.

Outside at the stables, Geralt has already saddled Roach and sits on her strong back. As Jaskier approaches half running, grinning like a madman, the witcher extends a hand and helps him onto the horse, has the other man nestling close behind him, arms sneaking around his middle.

‘Where to?’ he smiles over his shoulder.

‘I believe you promised to show me the Blue Mountains. And after that? Why not the edge of the world? I ought to cloak myself in secrecy for a while and save my hide. Father will be furious.’

Looking towards the academy, Geralt asks, sounding concerned, ‘Will your cousin be alright?’

‘Oh yes yes, don’t worry about him. He’s always been the favourite.’ 

Spurring Roach on with a few controlled motions, in the direction of the city gates and towards Kaer Morhen, he replies, ‘Very well. Although I’m not so sure for how long you will actually manage to avoid trouble or attention.’

Jaskier throws his head back and laughs. His witcher knows him too well.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback always appreciated. Feel free to point out mistakes, thanks!
> 
> References to songs and poems in order of appearance:  
> 1\. Sleeping Sun by Nightwish  
> 2\. Lore Lay by Clemens Brentano  
> 3\. The Old Astronomer by Sarah Williams  
> 4\. The Witcher Netflix OST - The Song of the White Wolf  
> 5\. Step it Out Mary  
> 6\. Autumn by James Thomson  
> 7\. Siúil A Rún


End file.
